


sillage

by La_Temperanza



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: #victurigiftexchange, Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Dogs, Fluff, Gardens & Gardening, Humor, M/M, Mistaken Identity, Mutual Pining, Oblivious Katsuki Yuuri, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Secret Admirer, Secret Identity, Vicchan Lives, victurigiftexchange
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-20
Updated: 2018-07-01
Packaged: 2019-02-17 18:41:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13082976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/La_Temperanza/pseuds/La_Temperanza
Summary: Out of all the things Yuuri expects to find out in his garden during the middle of the night, a vigilante superhero is definitely not one of them.(Especially one who then proceeds to leave gifts on his doorstep and looks kind of like his handsome next-door neighbor.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nikiviki](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nikiviki/gifts).



> Happy Holidays, Anna/nikiviki! Full confession, I loved your superhero prompt and had this whole grandiose fic planned out for it, except around check-in I realized there was no way I would have anything finished for it in time. D: So I went back to the drawing board, pulling out “Or maybe one of them is a hero and the other is a reporter/normal citizen and little does citizen man know that superhero guy is actually a co worker/neighbor.” and the part about them being oblivious. Also slightly inspired by [this prompt](https://3leftsmakeawrite.tumblr.com/post/165154525138/otpprompts-person-a-is-a-super-villain-who-makes) except with a few tweaks. This turned out less "superhero AU" and more "they're neighbors and Viktor happens to be a superhero", but I hope you enjoy it anyway! 
> 
> Please note this is a multi-chaptered WIP because I ran out of time to finish it before posting thanks to real-life and the holidays. :|;; But I swear it's coming! It just turned out a lot longer than I expected. *stares at 17k+ she has sitting in the wings*
> 
> Slight warning for mentions of animal cruelty. Nothing too graphic (I think) but just a heads-up.
> 
> Thanks to Ollie for all the brainstorming and support!

There’s a man inside Yuuri’s garden. 

Not that Yuuri realizes it at first. He’s half-asleep and nearly dead on his feet, exhausted and sore from long hours hunched over his work table. The only reason he’s up and about at this time of night is because he hadn’t been able to ignore Vicchan’s pitiful whines for much longer, unless he wanted a mess to clean up later. The poor puppy is barely out of potty training and needs consistency in order for it to stick. 

It’s when the two of them are returning from their impromptu midnight walk—Yuuri inwardly lamenting over the effects his toy poodle’s tiny bladder is having on his valuable sleep time the entire way—when Vicchan suddenly perks his ears up and begins to yap in the direction of the lavender shrubs. 

“Vicchan, shh…” Yuuri mumbles and gently tugs on the leash in an attempt to get Vicchan to move along. “You’re going to wake up the neighbor—”

Oh. That is definitely a pair of feet, clad in black leather calf-length boots, sticking out onto the flagstone pathway. 

Immediately Yuuri freezes in place. The possibility that he’s somehow stumbled upon a dead body has his heart leaping into his throat. His grip on the leash goes slack, and to his horror, Vicchan wastes no time exercising this accidental freedom by dashing off to investigate. 

“Vicchan, _no_ ,” Yuuri hisses, frantic, but it’s no use. Vicchan is already sniffing the feet thoroughly, tail wagging back-and-forth fast in a golden brown blur, no concept of ‘disrupting a potential crime scene’ to be found in his doggy brain. 

Yuuri, however, approaches the situation with a little more caution. He creeps up, cell phone in hand and ready to call the authorities if necessary, and exhales in relief when he gets a better view. Upon closer inspection, the person in question seems to be alive after all, judging by the way the man’s chest rises and falls in deep even breaths. He’s dressed in some sort of costume, consisting of black lycra pants that cling to the lines and curves of well-defined leg muscles (that Yuuri’s eyes shamefully linger on for far too long), gloves that cut off below the elbow and match the black leather of the aforementioned boots, and an asymmetrical wine-colored jacket with golden accents that stretch across his broad torso. His face is partially covered by the intricate hooded mask over his head, but maybe Yuuri is imagining things because he swears that strong jawline is somewhat familiar to him. If only he could remember from where.

It’s difficult to tell for certain in the limited light provided by Yuuri’s phone, but the stranger doesn’t look injured in the slightest. Instead, it’s like he simply decided this was as good of a spot as any to rest and sprawled out to enjoy a nice nap.

That is, until he gets a tongueful of overeager puppy right to the face. 

“Mm, Makka, stop…” He rolls out of the way from Vicchan’s kisses and with a yawn, sluggishly pushes up into a relaxed sitting position. When he opens his eyes, they’re a glint of steel blue, hazy like the sky of a early winter morning. Yuuri pinpoints the moment they zero in on his presence and he straightens up stiff as a board under their gaze. 

“Um,” Yuuri says. “Are you okay?”

The man blinks and then a slow dreamy smile spreads across his face. “Hi,” he rasps, his voice thick and scratchy from sleep. “What are you doing out here?”

“Uh, this is my garden,” Yuuri blurts out, “so shouldn’t I be the one asking you that?” Common sense dictates that he probably shouldn’t engage in any further conversation without knowing if the other person poses a threat or not, but Yuuri’s self-preservation has gone out the window along with a proper sleep schedule. “I found you here,” he adds. “Well, I mean, my dog did. When we were out walking.”

The man hums in response. He removes a glove to reveal long pale fingers that give belly scritches to Vicchan, who instantly rolls over for his newfound best friend. Some guard dog he’s turning out to be, the traitor, but Yuuri can’t fault him a weakness for tummy rubs. “Thank you,” the man murmurs. “I always thought your garden looked so peaceful and tonight it really called out to me.”

“Oh.” Yuuri says. “Um, okay?” 

In a bizarre way, he sort of understands. Whenever the thoughts in his head grow too loud for his own good, he steps back into his garden, kicks off his shoes to curl his toes into the earth, and _breathes_. 

He sits down a foot away, cross-legged, and grimaces when the dew on the grass soaks through the thin fabric of his pajamas in a matter of seconds. There’s no point in standing back up though, especially when Vicchan tears himself away from the attentive scratching to claim his usual spot on Yuuri’s lap. “...I find it peaceful here too,” Yuuri admits with a small smile. He braces one of his arms behind him to support his and Vicchan’s weight while he leans back. “I’d spend all of my time out here if I could.”

“I can see why.” The man closes his eyes, and for a moment, he appears so serene and ethereal that Yuuri is mesmerized by the sight. When he opens them again, he fixes Yuuri with an intense look that’s impossible to decipher. “It’s beautiful.”

Yuuri flushes pink at the compliment. He knows the number of hours he’s devoted to his work are countless; he has the calluses upon calluses to prove it. It’s rare for his hands not to be stained various colors from clipping and weeding and extracting, and there always seems to be a crescent of dirt underneath his fingernails no matter how hard he scrubs them. He’s just not accustomed to accepting praise for the fruits of his labor. “It’s part of my job,” he explains, “I grow what I need to…”

He trails off mid-sentence, eyes widening as the man raises his ungloved hand up. For a heart-stopping second, Yuuri wonders if it’s heading towards him and instinctively ducks from its path, but then he realizes it’s reaching for a rose on the bush behind him. Before he can fully process what he’s doing, he yanks the man’s wrist back and shouts, “No, don’t pick that!”

Neither of them move at first, both locked into place, though the stranger’s mouth is gaping open with obvious surprise. His hand is left hovering over the blossom he had been reaching for, his fingertips only a few scant inches away from brushing against the petals that are as dusty pink as the blush tingeing his cheeks. 

It’s when Yuuri registers the quickened fluttering of a pulse underneath his grasp that he snaps back to the reality of the situation. He drops the man’s wrist like it burns and holds his hands up in placation. “Sorry,” he says, his face burning red in embarrassment, “it’s just that it’s not ready yet and I need every petal I can to—”

His apology is cut off when the man throws back his head and laughs. The unexpected sound is a nice, breathy rumble that catches Yuuri off-guard, yet at the same time also puts him at ease. “It’s okay,” the man says. His eyes are bright and twinkling even underneath the dark shadows of his mask. “Like you said, it is _your_ garden.”

Right. Yuuri has almost forgot the surreal nature of the current predicament he’s in; here he is, chatting to this guy as if they personally know each other rather than treating him like a trespasser. As far as Yuuri knows, the man could be a thief, scoping out his next target, which would explain the unusual get-up he’s wearing. Though what kind of criminal would sleep on the job and be so blasé about being caught out in the open?

“Tell me then,” the man says, interrupting Yuuri from his thoughts, “do the rules about not being picked apply to you too?”

Yuuri frowns, confused. Maybe the guy is drunk, or under the influence of some other illicit drug, and it’s just Yuuri’s luck that he happened to sleep off his binge in Yuuri’s garden. Yet his words are clear and concise, not the slurred nonsensical garbage Yuuri tends to spout whenever he himself has had too much to drink. “I’m not a flower,” Yuuri points out. “Or any kind of plant. I can’t be picked.”

The man laughs again, this time more of a low chuckle that sends a shiver up Yuuri’s spine. And suddenly he’s closer than before, much too close, close enough that Yuuri can feel the warmth radiating off of him. “No, you’re not,” he says, and then croons, “but I wonder if I could try anyway.”

There’s an underlying meaning there, but Yuuri is too sleep-deprived and cranky to decipher the words more than at face value. “Why would you? We don’t even know each other.”

The distressed noise that comes out of the man’s mouth rivals Vicchan’s whines in terms of patheticness. He draws his hand back from where it has been lingering in the space behind Yuuri’s ear (how long has that been there?), grazing Yuuri’s cheek in the process, and lets it flop down on the ground beside him. “...No,” the man says, forlorn, though Yuuri can’t even begin to grasp why, “no, I guess you don’t.”

Just when Yuuri is about to ask what exactly that means, Vicchan decides to bury underneath the fabric of his t-shirt. The sensation of a freezing wet nose against bare skin causes Yuuri to yelp. “I have to take him back inside before it gets too late,” he explains, flustered, to the look of alarm on the other’s face. He rises to his feet and tries to dust the grass and dirt off his backside as best as he can. “Are you going to stay here for much longer?”

“If that’s okay with you.” The smile the man flashes is practiced, poised, perfect; meant to charm its intended audience. It has its desired effect, somewhat, but Yuuri also notices it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I won’t pick anything. Promise.”

“Oh. That’s...good,” Yuuri says, not knowing how else to respond. He scoops Vicchan up into his arms, tucking the dozing puppy into the crook of his neck, and heads towards the house. As he leaves, he swears he hears a quietly uttered ‘good night’ behind him, but he isn’t so sure. 

Once safely inside and deposited on the floor, Vicchan trots over to his gigantic doggy bed (it’s much too large for his miniscule stature thanks to a personal error when ordering online, but Yuuri hadn’t wanted to bother with the hassle of returning it) and promptly plops down, snoring within seconds. There’s a pang of envy in Yuuri’s stomach, a desire to do something similar in his own bed. Despite the exhaustion settling in his limbs, he’s too wired to sleep knowing the man is still outside, alone. It’s not a debate about whether Yuuri should call the police, not anymore (because against better judgment, he isn’t), but more of what would drive someone to seek out the comfort of a garden that doesn’t belong to them and whether that person should be left by themselves. The more he thinks about it, the antsier he gets, his anxiety telling him that he can’t avoid it like he usually would. After much inner deliberation, he groans and grabs the old throw blanket he keeps folded over the back of his couch. 

The man hasn’t moved from the spot from where Yuuri left him, and when he hears Yuuri’s approach, he hurriedly swipes the pad of his thumb across his eyes. Has he been crying? Now Yuuri doesn’t know what to do; it feels like he’s intruded on something that should’ve remained private. 

“You came back?” the man asks. The way he stares up in awe does nothing to ease the stifling awkwardness that hangs in the air, but Yuuri thinks it’s not entirely unpleasant. 

“Here.” Yuuri thrusts the blanket over before he completely loses his nerve. “I know it won’t help much, but it’s something at least.”

The blanket is a ratty, threadbare piece of Yuuri’s childhood, stubborn sentimentality the sole motive preventing it from being scrapped to rags ages ago, but it’s accepted like it’s the most precious thing in the world. “Wow...” the man says in a hushed tone, running a hand over the faded cloth, and then he beams. “I appreciate it, thank you!” He wraps one end around his body and holds up the other, gesturing for Yuuri to take a seat next to him. While Yuuri hadn’t originally planned on staying, his body moves on instinct, and soon he finds the fabric draped around his shoulders. There’s a hint of firm fingers squeezing his upper arm, brief and gone before he can react. 

“Can you tell me about them?” The man asks while tilting his head towards the garden. “The flowers I mean.”

“What?” Yuuri stops picking at the already fraying edges of the blanket and looks up. Out of all the possible conversations they can have, he’s expected one that includes the vital details, such as the exchanging of names and an explanation as to why they are sitting out here in the middle of the night, two strangers huddled together. Not so much a breakdown of Horticulture 101. “What do you want to know?”

“ _Everything_.” A careful pause, a wistful sigh, an encouraging smile that Yuuri is in danger of falling for, fast. “I want you to tell me everything.”

So Yuuri does. He’s slow to start at first, not used to having the free reign to share this interest with anyone. His family loves and supports him, always have and always will, but he knows they don’t understand it completely, not like he does, content with comparing a rose to a peony. They listen and nod politely whenever he launches into his excited spiels about another formula he’s concocted or a rare cultivar he’s managed to get his hands on for planting, but there comes a point where he can see their eyes kind of glaze over. He doesn’t fault them for it though, not when they’re one of his biggest clients as he struggles to get his own business up and running off the ground…no pun intended. 

As for right now, he periodically checks for signs he’s being boring, but finds none. Instead his unexpected audience of one looks enraptured, seemingly hanging on every little thing Yuuri says. After that, the words come to him a lot easier. He explains how around twenty or so pounds of rose petals are needed for a mere five milliliters of oil, which is why he needs every last one, and how he used to get the discarded, ugly rejects from a local florist until he discovered they had been chemically treated to stay fresh longer, thus rendering the batch of oils he had distilled from them useless. He laments over the recent trend of everyone and anyone thinking they’re amateur aromatherapists all of a sudden, oversaturating the essential oil scene and giving the actual professionals a bad rap. He rants about the fact that all lavender-scented products are not the same, that out of all the multiple species and strains, true _Lavandula angustifolia_ is hands-down the winner above the rest. He makes the man swear to never _ever_ buy cheap, knock-off oils because ‘if they’re not overbearing Spike Lavender, then they’re probably Lavandin or a synthetic, which is even _worse_.’

(Okay, so he might be growing a little delirious the longer he struggles to stay awake, but it doesn’t negate the fact that this is a very important subject that he takes very seriously.)

He talks and talks and talks, until he doesn’t know half of what he’s saying any more. He’s unable to keep his head drooping forward, his chin knocking against his chest, his eyelids weighed down like they’ve gained fifty pounds a piece. It’s in the midst of a mumbled lecture on why simple cold-pressed fruit oils are so much better than any commercialized product on today’s market when he finally runs out of steam and drifts off.

(Later, he won’t recall leaning on the strong comfortable weight pressed against his side, nor the gloved fingers carding through his hair.)

☙❀❧

When Yuuri wakes up, hours later, he’s alone. 

The only evidence he has to prove he hasn’t sleepwalked and dreamt the entire thing is a folded note by his side that reads, ‘ _Thank you for a lovely night! I’m so sorry I couldn’t stay!_ ’ It’s written in flowing cursive, signed with a hastily drawn poodle crying huge dramatic tears.

A part of Yuuri is strangely disappointed. Despite the unusual circumstances surrounding last night (or earlier this morning to be really technical), he can’t remember the last time he’s felt so secure in the career path he’s traversing down. He’s been by himself for so long, used to handling things on his own, so hearing a complete stranger fawn over his work is an unexpected boost of confidence. He has people already in his life that encourage him of course, such as his family and friends, but it’s not the same. It’s hard to explain this new emotion bubbling up inside him, and he thought, he had hoped, that maybe, _maybe_ …

Never mind. It doesn’t matter now. Perhaps it’s better this way, without the awkward exchange of goodbyes in telling light of dawn. He’ll chalk it up as a fluke experience, a funny anecdote to tell at parties to make his otherwise humdrum life a touch more interesting. 

(That is, if he ever actually attends those parties whose invites he keeps turning down, citing being too busy with work. Phichit isn’t fooled in the slightest, but keeps offering anyway in hopes one day Yuuri will cave in and say yes.)

The instant Yuuri staggers to his feet, his body loudly voices its displeasure at sleeping outside on the ground, his joints crunching and cracking during his feeble attempt to stand upright. While he’s lucky to have soft grass and spongy moss for his sleeping spot rather than hardened dirt, it’s unlikely the mattress companies will have a run for their money any time soon. 

He gathers up the blanket and shuffles towards the back door of the house. Vicchan is there, waiting for him, barking once before dashing to his food and water bowls and sitting squarely in front of them. Even if Yuuri hasn’t quite made his successful return to the land of the living yet, he receives the intended message loud and clear.

“Yes, yes, I’m coming,” he says, covering a yawn with his hand. “Were you a good boy without me?”

Vicchan barks again, nudging the bowls, and even if it turns out Yuuri discovers the trash can has been knocked over and been rifled through (again), he can’t ignore such an adorable request.

As he passes by the coffee maker, he flips it on, knowing he’s going to require lots and lots of caffeine if he wants be in any mode of productive today. While he waits for it to brew, he dumps a measured scoop of puppy kibble into Vicchan’s bowl and makes sure there’s plenty of fresh water. The way Vicchan pounces on his food in earnest always makes Yuuri smile, and he pats the dog a few times before he stands back up, wincing at the pull of his sore and stiffened muscles. Maybe this would be the best time to test out that newest peppermint ginger rub he’s been working on recently, he thinks while kneading a fist into his tightened lower back. 

It’ll have to wait until later though. Right now he just wants to relax a little bit longer, enjoy the quiet morning while he can before he’s forced to kick his butt into gear. 

The aroma of fresh coffee beckons to him, and he pours himself a sizable cup, adding only a splash of cream to cut back on the bitterness. He grabs a banana from the fruit bowl on the counter and takes his sparse breakfast into the living room to settle down in the well-worn comforts of the couch. Automatically he turns the television on, selecting the local news over a morning game show, but it’s only for the background noise. His attention is more focused on the list he’s typed out on his phone with all the errands he needs to accomplish for the day. 

While he’s in a constant struggle to gather a sizable customer base and increase his profits, he already has a few tried and true clients who are waiting for their orders to filled by the end of the week. Most of them are those he knows personally, since his advertising strategy so far has just been word of mouth among the close-knit circles he’s a part of, and he knows they would be understanding if he didn’t finish on time. The only person who would be upset is himself, stubborn in his determination to get everything done, even if it means staying up into the late twilight hours with stained fingers and watery sinuses from all the scents and fragrances. 

There’s a sudden blast of dramatic urgent music blaring from the television, and Yuuri raises his gaze up just in time to catch the words ‘BREAKING NEWS’ flashing across the screen. A newscaster appears next with a dour expression on her face, the ticker underneath her reading, ‘Dogfighting Ring Broken by Masked Vigilante.’ 

“This just in,” she says to the camera, her eyes flickering minutely as she reads off the teleprompter, “authorities report the bust of an illegal underground dog fighting ring happened sometime late last night, with a total of fifteen animals surrendered to police custody. The following footage may disturb some viewers.”

Yuuri’s heart breaks as footage of dogs being led out in cages and on leashes plays. They’re obviously terrified, shying away from the camera and their rescuers, some of them with both old and fresh wounds alike. The idea that there’s people out there who can be so cruel and manipulative makes Yuuri’s blood boil. Vicchan totters in around this time, his little belly well-sated for now, and Yuuri scoops him up and holds him close. It’s the puppy tongue lapping at the saltiness on his cheeks that causes Yuuri to realize he’s crying, and he burrows his face in fur, promising he’ll never let anything like that ever happen to Vicchan. 

“The existence of the ring was tipped off by an anonymous phone call,” the newscaster continues, “however, when officers arrived on the scene, they found the suspects had already been apprehended in an unusual manner: their clothes and shoes had been turned into a gold alloy, adhering them in place to the ground.”

Vicchan squirms out of Yuuri’s grasp to crawl down to the end of the couch and grab his favorite chew toy, but Yuuri doesn’t even notice. Instead he’s too enthralled with the television, eyes widening at the group of men struggling to move while the police watch and scratch their heads from the sidelines. 

This is...Yuuri knows this. He’s seen it before in the past couple of months and has been following every news piece he can on the subject. 

This has the person only known to the public as ‘Midas’ written all over it.

Yuuri doesn’t know why he’s so curious about the mysterious vigilante. Everyone else seems to be too, of course; the online forums are bursting with possible theories, ranging from Midas’s true identity to whether or not such a person even truly exists. By now, this latest incident probably has taken the internet by storm, and Yuuri’s sure if he checked, his Instagram feed will be blowing up about it. 

No one has seen Midas before. Some boast that they have, but have never been able to produce any proof beyond blurry images or doctored photos. There are those out there who claim that Midas is made of gold themselves, or that just like the myth, one touch from them could turn you into a solid statue. Others say that there’s nothing supernatural involved, that whoever Midas is, they sound more like the villain out of a James Bond movie.

Yuuri isn’t sure what he believes. The only thing he knows and cares about is the fact that Midas always seems to be involved with the protection of animals. Whether it’s the rescue of cats and dogs from a burning shelter (and an anonymous donation of gold bars shortly after) or the release of abused animals from a shady testing facility while earning their vigilante status in the process, Midas has had their hand in it. 

There’s some who might protest at putting a person who works outside the law on top of a pedestal, but Yuuri can’t help it. It’s not just vapid idolization either. Deep down, he knows if he had the capability, he’d do the same thing. He _wishes_ he could do the same thing. 

He grabs the remote to turn the volume up to hear the rest of the news report, his to-do list temporarily forgotten for the time being. The newscaster is now introducing another piece of footage, one she labels as an exclusive first look at a possible clue towards Midas’s identity. 

Yuuri stops mid-swig of coffee and stares in disbelief. If this is legitimate, then not only will it cement the proof that a real person is involved, it’ll also be the first time they’ve been captured on video.

The following segment is grainy and poor quality, characteristic of cheap home surveillance cameras. The lighting in the scene is poor, almost pitch black, the single exception being the single fluorescent light that hangs over a circle of seated and standing figures right in the middle. There’s no sound, but they’re going through the motions of the cheering and shouting at the dogs they surround. Just when Yuuri is about to look away, disgusted with the sight, there’s a burst of illumination, the bright glimmer of gold, and the figures are frozen in place, unable to escape. Some of them do try, only to wind up falling on their faces with a thud that’s more felt than heard. 

Seconds pass, and then a new figure emerges from the shadows. They ignore the men writhing on the ground and kneel down, reaching for the dogs. The figure doesn’t grab or lunge at the animals but instead waits patiently with their arm outstretched, their stance coming off as less threatening as possible. It’s like they’ve done this before, having the prior experience under their belt to tell the dogs are skittish and won’t trust any sudden movements. 

The person’s face is turned and hidden from the camera, but even if it wasn’t, it would be near impossible to discern any features from this angle or distance. Instead, the only thing identifying about them is their black pants, boots, and gloves, and their wine-colored hooded jacket— 

And that’s about when Yuuri finds out the hard way how painful it is to shoot hot coffee out your nose.


	2. Chapter 2

“...Oh my god, _Yuuri_.”

Yuuri groans in agreement. If it was possible to die from pure unadulterated shame, he’d be shoveling himself six feet into the grave by now. “Trust me, Phichit, I _know_ ,” he says mournfully into the phone, “but how was I supposed to tell it was him? No one’s ever said what he looks like!” 

He’d bury himself deeper under the throw blanket he’s cocooned himself in, but every time he does, the smell of the man’s ( _Midas’s_ , his brain supplies unhelpfully) cologne lingering in the fabric infiltrates its way further into his nostrils. Yuuri tells himself that the only reason he picks up on the sharp notes of cardamom and chamomile with musky sandalwood undertones is because distinguishing scents is a facet of his job, but he has no excuse as to why he hasn’t bothered to switch to another blanket. There’s plenty of them in the hallway closet—due to his tendency to freeze like a perennial at any sign of a cold snap—if he would just get up and grab a new one.

“It’s not like he told me his name or anything,” he adds in his defense. “I guess he couldn’t, with the secret identity and all, but still—oh _god_ , I just realized I read him the _lavender riot act_ —”

“Wait a minute, hold up,” Phichit says. “Before you start on your anxiety death spiral, are you telling me you had a tall mysterious stranger in your garden last night, who not only turns out to be kind of a superhero, but he also let you talk his ear off about flowers?” 

Well, when it’s spelled out like that, it really drives home how boring Yuuri sounds in comparison. Midas must live an exciting life with all types of heroic adventures underneath his belt, and yet Yuuri had commandeered the entire conversation to be about his plain old self. 

But Midas had asked about Yuuri, hadn’t he? He had every chance to boast about his many feats instead of listening to Yuuri yammer on and on about the garden. He had wanted to know _everything_ , he said.

“What am I supposed to do now?” Yuuri asks. “I don’t think I can go to the police about this. It’s not like they’ll even believe me anyway, not with all the false reports they’ve been getting lately.”

“That’s easy. Post a missed connections ad on Craigslist and tell Midas how much you want his ‘golden key to unlock your secret garden.’”

“ _What?!_ ” Yuuri squawks, his cheeks on fire. “Phichit, _no_ , I’m being serious.”

“So am I!” Phichit laughs while Yuuri begins to seriously question their friendship. “Okay, so maybe don’t do that,” he amends, “unless you want a bunch of creeps emailing you. The point is, I think you’re ignoring the possibility that Midas, or whoever you met last night, seemed to be genuinely interested in you.”

“Interested in my garden, maybe,” Yuuri says. “And I swear, before you say anything, I mean my _actual_ garden.” 

Yuuri doesn’t know what he has to offer beyond that, having not put much stock into other’s opinions of him before. As far as physical appearances go, he’s no haggard troll chasing travelers off his bridge, but he’s not waiting by the phone for a call from the people at Vogue any time soon either, especially not in his current state. His hair is uncombed, sticking up at odd angles from tossing and turning in his sleep, and he’s still wearing what constitutes as his pajamas: a faded Wayne State University t-shirt, worn and washed so many times it’s developing tiny rips around the collar, and a pair of baby-pink track pants that have the word ‘juicy’ embroidered across the butt in white stitching. Speaking of which… “Remind me why I still have these pants you got me for my birthday last year?”

Phichit laughs again, not helpful in the slightest. “Aww, I always knew you secretly liked those.”

“All my other ones are in the laundry!” Yuuri protests. That’s a lie, but he’s not about to admit the pants are comfy as hell and give Phichit that satisfaction. Then again, he probably doesn’t need to, considering Phichit has the uncanny ability to read him like an open book. 

Whatever Phichit says next is drowned out by Vicchan’s barking at the front bay window. Yuuri glances over to check the clock on the wall and sees it’s nine-o-five. Right on schedule, as always. 

“Speaking of cute guys who you should totally go after,” Phichit says, ignoring Yuuri’s strangled noise of disbelief, “let me guess: Vicchan is barking at your neighbor and his dog again?”

“Of course he is.” Yuuri rubs his temples to stave off the headache he can feel forming behind his eyes. Trying to quiet the overexcited puppy in the past has proved pointless, so he doesn’t even bother any more. Truth be told, he doesn’t blame Vicchan, not when this time of morning makes Yuuri a little giddy himself. “I don’t know what to do about that either. I know I should acclimate Vicchan to other dogs so he’s not so isolated, but...”

“‘But’?” Phichit prompts when Yuuri doesn’t finish the sentence. “Doesn’t the guy walk by your place every single day, even though he lives across on the other side of the street? It’s sounds like you have the perfect opportunity to go out and say, ‘Hi, my dog really likes your dog, do you want to walk them together and then maybe while we’re planning their doggy wedding we can grab a bite to eat sometime?’”

There’s a foolproof system to this that Phichit doesn’t seem to understand. It’s become somewhat of a daily routine: Vicchan barks at the neighbor’s gorgeous standard poodle, his tail whirling so fast he’s one rotation away from achieving maximum puppy velocity. The neighbor responds with a friendly wave and a brilliant smile, which Yuuri has learned to meekly return instead of freezing stock-still on sight. Then they move on with their individual lives, until the next day when they do the cycle over again, rinse and repeat. Of course Yuuri craves more, perhaps the exchange of conversation beyond simple greetings and idle comments about the weather, but he also doesn’t want to disrupt the status quo. Things are fine the way they are, really.

Except, the universe has other plans, because instead of passing by like every other day before, through the curtains Yuuri sees his neighbor pause and then walk up the cobblestone path leading to Yuuri’s house. 

Yuuri yelps in surprise and goes to leap to his feet, only to tumble off the couch, limbs tangled up in the blanket. “... _Ow_.”

“Yuuri?” Phichit’s voice is faint and muffled from where the phone has landed facedown on the plush rug. “What happened?”

Managing to free himself, Yuuri grabs the phone, mumbling a rushed goodbye and promise to call back later to Phichit, hanging up just as there’s a knock at the door. “Coming!” he shouts and then cringes. In hindsight, he doesn’t know why he didn’t just pretend no one was home. 

On second thought, no, that’s not true; he knows why. There has to be a valid reason why his neighbor is here, now, after all this time, and Yuuri can’t deny he’s curious. He runs a hand through his bedhead in a failed attempt to be somewhat presentable to company, and then picks up a wriggling Vicchan before cracking open the door. “Hello?”

“Hi, good morning!” The neighbor flashes his perfect pearly-white teeth and lifts up his expensive Gucci designer sunglasses to place them on top of the crest of his silvery blonde bangs. “I see you and your adorable poodle all the time, but we’ve never had the chance to introduce ourselves to one another.” He offers the hand forward that’s currently not holding a bright pink rhinestone-studded leash. “I’m Victor.”

To his credit, Yuuri does not say, ‘I know. The postal service keeps delivering me your mail by mistake, forcing me to run it over to your mailbox whenever I think you’re not home so you don’t wonder why I have your subscription to Poodle Variety every month. Also, you and your dog are the whole reason I adopted my own puppy, and I might have named him after you because I couldn’t think of anything else.’ Instead, he shuffles Vicchan around in his arms to shake Victor’s hand. “Yuuri,” he says with a slight bow of his head, because while he hasn’t been in Japan for ages now, old habits tend to die hard. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“‘Yuuri’...” Victor repeats the name like he’s savoring the sound of it. He then rubs a warm thumb across the bridge of Yuuri’s knuckles, squeezing the entire hand once before he lets go. “Finally!” he exclaims. “I have a name to match the cute face that I look forward to seeing each and every day!”

“Uh,” Yuuri says. He’s not sure what Victor means by that. “You...too?”

“I’m glad I had the chance to catch you,” Victor continues, oblivious to Yuuri’s confusion. “I’ve stopped by a few times before, but I guess you weren’t home.”

“Eh?” Yuuri blinks at that tidbit of information and adjusts his glasses. “I mean, maybe I was out whenever you came by, but I think it’s more likely I was out back at the time and didn’t hear you,” he explains. “I tend to listen to music whenever I’m working.”

“Oh!” Victor tilts his head to the side, his smile widening. “When you say, ‘out back,’ you mean your garden, right? Every time Makkachin and I walk the trail behind your house, we have to stop and smell the flowers, don’t we girl?”

The poodle next to him lets out a low woof and then proceeds to wiggle her nose as she eagerly sniffs at Vicchan. Yuuri puts his puppy down so the two can properly meet, which might’ve been a bad idea because Vicchan immediately pounces on Makkachin. “Ah, easy Vicchan!” Yuuri goes to pull Vicchan back while shooting Victor an apologetic look. “Sorry, he’s still in the play-fighting stage—”

There’s a sudden hand on Yuuri’s forearm, stopping him in his tracks. “It’s okay,” Victor says, his voice both confident and reassuring at once. “Makka knows how to handle puppies.” He releases his hand to point downwards at the dogs. “Just watch.”

Makkachin has rolled on her back in a faux-submissive position, content with letting Vicchan run circles around her. When he gets too rough with his nipping, she flips over and pins him down under one of her gentle paws until he settles down. Then she lets him go so the two of them can start the whole thing again. 

“Wow,” Yuuri says. He’s beyond relieved that the two seem to be getting along well enough; it would’ve been devastating to both him and Vicchan otherwise. “She really is good with him.”

Victor beams and bends down to unclip Makkachin’s leash so the dogs don’t get wrapped up in it while they play. “She’s had plenty of experience. I often take her to the poodle rescue downtown to gauge how the other dogs react with her before they’re paired up with potential families.”

“Oh, that’s the place where I got Vicchan.” Yuuri smiles at the memory of when he first brought Vicchan home. He was a tiny ball of fluff who seemed to cause trouble everywhere he went. Actually, not much has changed, except maybe a slight increase in size. “I don’t remember ever seeing you there though,” Yuuri adds. “Do you volunteer with the rescue often?”

A wry expression passes over Victor’s face, but it’s there and gone so fast Yuuri isn’t sure he hasn’t imagined it altogether. “Something like that!” Victor chuckles. “If you want, I can bring her over here more often to help with his biting and get him used to being around other dogs.”

Yuuri gulps. He struggles not to overthink the offer, rationalizing that Victor is simply playing the part of a good neighbor. The least Yuuri can do is return the favor in any way he can. “That would be great, actually,” he says, and gestures behind him. “If you’re free now, do you want to take them both out to the garden so they have more room to play? I can grab something for us to drink.”

The question is barely out of his mouth before Victor is grabbing both of Yuuri’s hands tight, bursting with excitement. He looks less like the cool suave person Yuuri’s made him out to be and more like a small child who’s been handed the keys to a toy store. “Really?!” he asks, and then bobs his head up and down. “I’d love to!”

His sudden enthusiasm catches Yuuri off-guard. (It’s also surprisingly contagious, although Yuuri is much more lax in showing it.) “Then, I guess I’ll see you around back in a few minutes,” Yuuri suggests, not exactly keen on the idea of letting Victor cut through the house. Yuuri isn’t a slob, per se, arguing that his home is clean but cluttered, showing signs of place that’s well-lived in. His hesitation is more because it’s his private place, one he isn’t ready for Victor to encroach upon. Not yet anyway; the garden is a big enough step as it is. “The gate should be unlocked, so you can let yourself in.”

(He really should change that, he thinks. It’s a miracle he hasn’t had any other people sneak in before last night.)

“Great!” Victor clips Makkachin’s leash back on before giving Yuuri a wink. “I hope you won’t keep me waiting for too long, Yuuri~”

“I won’t,” Yuuri promises, his face glowing pink. He gathers a reluctant Vicchan back inside and closes the door, waiting until he hears the footsteps of Victor walking away before he releases a loud gush of air. He leans against the door, and it takes him a second to realize his cheeks are aching because he’s smiling so much. That was...that really just happened...he…

The sound of a text coming in on his phone interrupts his inner celebratory freakout, and when he picks it up off the ground from where he haphazardly left it, he sees he has five new messages.

Phichit  
  
**Phitchit:** ???  
  
**Phitchit:** Did you just hang up on me? I thought we were friends.  ;(  
  
**Phitchit:** Ok now I’m starting to get worried. Are you hurt? Do you need help?  
  
**Phitchit:** Yuuri??  
  
**Phitchit:** That’s it I’m coming over. You better be ok.  
  


Yuuri huffs out a soft laugh. Phichit might tease him horribly every now and then, but there’s no doubt in his mind that Phichit will always be there to have his back. Instead of wasting time trying to explain over text, Yuuri decides to call. It rings once before it picks up and Phichit answers with a frantic, “Yuuri, I was just about to call, what happened?”

“I’m fine, really,” Yuuri says, apologetic for making his friend worry. “Sorry, I fell off the couch when Victor knocked on the door.”

“‘Victor’? As in, ‘the hot neighbor with the cute dog’ Victor?” Phichit gasps. “ _Yuuri Katsuki_! Were you making doggy wedding plans without telling _me_?”

“No! It’s not—”

“Good, because you know if I’m not your party planner for that, I’ll be _pissed_ ,” Phichit says, laughing, and then asks, “If you two weren’t talking about mutt matrimony, what did your Victor want?”

“He’s not my—” Yuuri starts to say, but then figures it’ll be pointless to argue with Phichit. “Actually, I can’t talk long, because he’s kind of in my garden right now waiting for me.”

Uh oh. There’s silence on the other end of the line, which is never a good sign. “Phichit?” Yuuri asks, cautious, and then sighs. “Go ahead and say something. I know you want to.”

“Do you want ‘naughty’ or ‘sassy’?”

Yuuri chokes. “ _What?_ ”

“I figured if the ‘juicy’ pants seem to have worked out so well for you, I might as well order you a couple more.”

“What do you mean the—”

Oh no. _Oh no_.

Yuuri takes the stairs up to his bedroom two at a time and frantically throws open his closet in search of something else to wear. Technically, the damage has already been done, but he hopes to salvage some of his reputation with Victor if it’s not too late. “You’re awful,” he mumbles as he strips from his clothes, “and I’m changing out of these right now to _burn_ them.”

“Aww, but Yuuri!” Phichit protests through his laughter. “At least wear those dark denim jeans you bought when we were in New York for that weekend-long holistic animal conference. Those will really show Victor how ‘juicy’ you are.”

“Oh my god,” Yuuri hisses. “ _Please stop._ ”

He hangs up as soon as the first lines of ‘Apple Bottom Jeans’ blast from the other end of the line.

☙❀❧

Yuuri does end up wearing the jeans.

Not because they may or may not show off his so-called ‘assets’ (thank you very much, _Phichit_ ), but because they’re one of the few pairs he owns where the knees haven’t been torn or stained from kneeling on the ground for the majority of the day. It comes as a occupational hazard of the job, heightened by the fact most of Yuuri’s work takes place at home, safe from societal rules on what to wear. Which means nine times out of ten he’s going to go with form over fashion when it comes to choosing his daily outfits.

(That is, if he even changes out of his pajamas after he wakes up in the morning. He’s had a handful of _those_ kind of days, don’t judge.) 

He matches the denim with a royal blue short-sleeved button-up, layered over a thin solid white t-shirt he hasn’t managed to spill anything on yet. He even styles his hair with gel so his bangs keep out of his eyes, though he grimaces when he pulls out a piece of a twig he must’ve picked up last night from his unplanned outdoor sleepover. 

Right, Phichit said that Midas sounded like he was interested in him, but Yuuri doesn’t know why someone like _that_ would be interested in someone like him, except for all the wrong reasons. It’s like being interested in a wreck you pass by in traffic, concerned for the safety of those involved but thanking the powers-that-be it wasn’t you. Some days Yuuri feels like the driver standing on the side of the road, shell-shocked and on hold with the insurance company, and others he feels like the smoking overturned car itself, front tire still fruitlessly turning.

Still, when he finally makes his way to the garden, Vicchan trotting at his heels, Yuuri notices how Victor looks at him like a man dying from thirst. Then again, Yuuri is also carrying a tray with a full carafe and glasses in his hands, so it’s probably that. It’s only mid-morning, yet already the heat of early June is making its presence widely known.

“Here.” Yuuri pours a glass and drops in a few ice cubes before he hands it over. “Sorry that took longer than expected.”

“What’s this?” Victor’s stare lingers on Yuuri for a little longer before he takes a sip. Immediately his eyes light up and he gulps down the rest of it. “Vkusno!” he cries, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “It’s like drinking nectar of the gods! Where did you get this?”

“I made it,” Yuuri says, squirming slightly as Victor’s praise washes over him, a small, pleased grin on his face. “It’s lavender lemonade with honey. I know people who are in the beekeeping and orchard business, so they trade their honey and lemons for the stuff I make.”

“It’s _amazing._ ” Victor lets out a wistful sigh and holds up his glass for a refill. “You should sell it. It’d be flying off the shelves.”

Yuuri almost spills the lemonade while shaking his head. “No, I’m okay with making it just for myself. I have my hands full enough as it is; I’m already busy working on a pet-friendly line of products right now.”

“Oils? With pets?” Victor raises his eyebrows. “Are you really sure that’s safe? It’s not like you’re a veterinarian, are you?”

Ouch. Yuuri figures Victor’s just being a responsible pet owner and asking the important questions, but it’s already a sore subject with Yuuri. He forces a strained smile, reminding himself that there’s no way Victor can know about all the hoops Yuuri has been jumping through over the past year to get this far in his project. “No, but I’m working directly with one who’s advising me on everything,” he says, launching into the usual spiel he gives possible financial backers. He pulls up Phichit’s veterinary clinic website on his phone and shows it to Victor for proof. Sure, the featured photo of Phichit with his hamsters peeking out his lab coat pockets doesn’t paint him as the most professional person out there in the field, but all his clients love him, both human and animal alike. “He can’t sell them at his clinic due to conflict of interest, but my friend’s started carrying them at her pet shop. I don’t know if you’ve heard of ‘Pet Merchandise Castle,’ but—”

“Oh, Makkachin and I visit there all the time! That’s her favorite place to go, right after the poodle rescue and the dog park, isn’t it Makka?” Victor pets through the curls on Makkachin’s head once or twice before turning back to Yuuri. “So I definitely have to keep an eye out for your products there, now that I’ve got your official seal of approval.”

Something about Victor’s response clicks inside Yuuri’s head. “...It’s you!” he shouts, some of his lemonade jostling out his glass and onto his shirt. Well, that was nice while it lasted, but he’ll worry about dealing with spot-treatment options later. “You’re the handsome guy with the poodle who stops by there every week! Yuuko says she’s always so grateful to see you because you’re the main reason they can make rent each month and—” He stops as soon as the realization over the weight of his words dawns on him and he winces. “Could you not let her know I told you that last part?”

Victor laughs, and while there’s something inherently pleasant about the way it sounds, it sends off a serious sense of déjà vu. “Don’t worry,” he says in a stage whisper, “your secret is safe with me.” He then leans the side of his face against the palm of his hand, his lips quirking upwards into a knowing smile. “Though, ‘the handsome guy,’ huh...”

This is it. This is how he, Yuuri Katsuki, dies by his own hand. Or own slip of his tongue, whatever. Either way, there’s no way he’s ever going to live this down. “I was quoting her!” he protests while his eyes search, panicked, for his garden tools in order to dig a deep hole from him to lie in. “Those were her words, not mine!”

“Oh.” Victor’s smile remains plastered on his face but goes plastic around the edges. “You disagree with her then,” he says, his tone turning dull, flat, unnatural. He clutches at his chest and sinks down to his knees, regardless of what havoc the ground might reek on his cream-colored slacks. “My heart can’t handle the rejection.”

“No, no, no, that’s not what I meant!” Yuuri shakes his his hands back and forth before he tries to lift Victor up, horrified by the mess he’s inadvertently created. “Please get up before your clothes are ruined! I think you’re very good-looking, really!”

“I don’t know if I can ever recover from this,” Victor groans, unbudging from the spot. “Unless…” He trails off, eyes peeking up through his fringe, watching and waiting for Yuuri’s reaction.

The hair on the back of Yuuri’s neck stands up under the intensity of Victor’s gaze. “Unless what?” he manages to get out, but only barely.

Before Yuuri can register what’s happening, Victor is back on his feet and leaning over him. Yuuri would’ve fallen backwards from the abrupt movement if not for Victor’s hand in the small of his back keeping him upright. “Make it up to me,” Victor says while hovering his mouth dangerously close to Yuuri’s ear, “by having dinner with me tomorrow night.”

What.

The. 

Hell.

Inwardly, Yuuri swears he hears Phichit crowing, ‘never doubt the magic of the track pants!’, followed by loud cackling. And honestly, maybe Yuuri is starting to believe too, because without missing a beat, he says, “Okay.”

Victor blinks, clearly not prepared for that answer. “Okay?”

“Okay,” Yuuri repeats, nodding, “but only if you’re buying.”

At first he thinks he might have pushed it too far, judging by the way Victor’s eyes grow wide as saucers, but then Victor laughs. “Okay,” he says. “Then I’ll see you tomorrow night—”

He’s cut off by the shrill beep of his phone. He pulls it out and whatever he sees on that screen has his mood souring in an instant. “...Sorry, Yuuri, I have to go now.” He runs a hand through his hair, looking like the very notion of leaving causes him pain. “Duty calls.”

“Tell me about it tomorrow?” Yuuri asks. He hopes the reminder will ease that furrow of brow that has no business marring Victor’s features. “Over dinner.”

“Right,” Victor says, the tightness of his expression softening. “Over dinner.”

The two smile at each other, neither of them moving from the spot at first, until Victor sighs and eventually turns away. “Makkachin, come. Say bye to Yuuri and Vicchan.”

“Bye,” Yuuri calls softly as Victor and Makkachin exit out the gate, heads down low like mourners at a funeral procession. The second he thinks they’re far enough out of earshot, he yanks his phone out of his pocket and dials the last number of his recent call list. “Phichit,” he breathes out by way of rushed greeting, “do _not_ say I told you so, but I need ideas on what to wear for a dinner.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, sorry for the delay! Combination of writer's block and life in general has been kicking my butt lately. Thank you to everyone for their wonderful comments so far; it really keeps me going knowing how much people are enjoying this. :D

The next day arrives in the form of a contradiction; it comes too soon and yet not fast enough. By the time his phone blares out the tone for his alarm at the crack of dawn, Yuuri has already been awake for what feels like hours now, staring blankly up at the bedroom ceiling. The oh too familiar thrum generated by his whirling thoughts courses through his veins, holding him just shy out of reach from the grasp of any decent sleep.

He’s used to his tendency to overthink things at this point in his adult life, having ridden a bucking pony in this mental rodeo many times before. There are no rational reasons behind his doubts, not now, besides the ones concocted by the ‘what-ifs’ and ‘if-onlys’ lurking in the cobwebs of his consciousness. He could tell himself that he’s being irrational, except that’s no use when he’s already well aware of the fact. It’s like telling someone who’s drowning that they need to need to stop taking in water. 

The problem is what Yuuri _doesn’t_ know. 

He doesn’t know how whatever is brewing between him and Victor is going to play out, and while the prospect worries Yuuri, it thrills him to no end too. He doesn’t know what he wants from this, except the chance for Victor to be more than just a friendly face. He doesn’t know if it’s too early to be so worked up when they exchanged official introductions only yesterday morning, even if it’s something that’s been on Yuuri’s mind for months. 

His lack of proper sleep presents itself in the form of dark raccoon circles under his eyes. The only thing he has to convince himself to drag his body, weighed down with fatigue, from the comfort of his covers this early in the day is the unfortunate reality that he has to run his errands now if he wants to have enough time to get ready for dinner tonight. 

(If anyone is worth the sacrifice of extra sleep time, it’s Victor. 

...Wait, no. First it’s Vicchan, _then_ Victor, but it’s still the thought that counts.)

Speaking of Vicchan, it’s rare for him to come with Yuuri out on a delivery, but because Yuuri’s dropping off a new shipment at Yuuko’s shop today and her triplets have been begging for weeks to see the puppy, Yuuri figures he can kill two birds with one stone. So after taking a quick shower and pouring himself the largest cup of coffee he can find—whoever first thought up the idea of a thirty ounce travel mug is an absolute _genius_ —he loads his supplies into the back of his van and then buckles Vicchan into his raised doggy car seat. It seemed like an extravagant purchase when Yuuri originally bought it, but versus the alternative of having a hyperactive puppy pouncing into his lap while he’s trying to drive, he’d much rather be safe than sorry. 

There’s a pang of regret from the bottom of his heart when he realizes that leaving now means missing the routine Victor and Makkachin visit, but then Yuuri remembers he’s having dinner with Victor tonight and grows antsy all over again. 

As Yuuri’s about to drive off, at the last minute he notices he’s forgotten his wallet and hops back out of the van to grab it. It’s when he’s heading back towards the house that he spots a bouquet on his front porch, placed directly underneath the bay window. He doesn’t know how he’s missed it at first, since it’s a huge arrangement that comes up nearly to his knee, comprised entirely of what appears to be a dozen roses. 

A dozen _solid gold_ roses. 

He stares at them, not quite positive they aren’t some sort of hallucination induced by sleep deprivation. Even when he runs a tentative finger across the gilded petals to confirm they’re indeed a tangible object, he’s still having a hard time processing their existence, especially in relation to him.

Before he can question ‘why’ and ‘how’ for too long, he discovers the small slip of ivory paper tucked in between the stems, adorned with the same loopy handwriting as the one he later stuck to his refrigerator door on a whim. ‘ _Thank you again for the other night,_ ’ the note reads. ‘ _Since I couldn’t pick your roses, I thought I would give you some of my own._ ’ Once again it’s signed with a sketch of a poodle; this time the poodle grips a rose held between its teeth like a flamboyant tango dancer.

It has to be from Midas, or whoever that man was from two nights ago. There’s no other logical explanation, though leaving gold unattended and out in the open is far from what Yuuri would label as ‘logical.’ Naively hopeful, maybe. Recklessly irresponsible, more likely. Not to mention, Yuuri has no idea how long they’ve been out here, or how Midas managed to drop them off without drawing any attention to himself. 

Vicchan’s impatient barking jolts Yuuri from his thoughts and snaps him into action. He’s already running behind schedule enough as it is; he can worry about a certain possible superhero and his gift of golden roses later. The bouquet is much heavier than its floral counterpart, so Yuuri has to use both hands to drag it inside to prevent it from being stolen off his porch while he’s gone. It’s being placed in the foyer for now, to be used as an extravagant door-stopper, just so he can grab his wallet and go.

How he manages to avoid a driving accident when his mind is preoccupied on other things beside the road, he has no idea. Along the way he switches on the radio just in time to catch the pop song that’s been all the rage lately, and he finds himself humming along with it while tapping his fingers on the steering wheel to the hypnotic beat. Years and years of ballet and dance lessons as a child makes it impossible for him not to move somehow whenever he hears a tune, even when it’s to something as cheesy yet catchy as this. 

(He’s been lax in his practice recently, putting off time at the barre in favor of work, and is no doubt rusty in result. But sessions at the studio has always helped him in the past, the anxiety spinning out of him during his sloppy pirouettes like a centrifuge, so maybe it’ll be helpful to pick it up again.)

The song fades out and cuts to the radio hosts reciting the name and artist of the song before they move on to the news section of the hour, the main topic of discussion being (who else?) Midas. 

(It’s like Yuuri can’t escape thinking about him even he wanted.)

The on-air DJs are going over the details about the most recent vigilante sighting, this time involving the rescue of a family’s beloved purebred Scottish Terrier, taken from his home right after his blue ribbon win at a recent AKC dog show. He’s the twelfth show dog stolen in the past two months, but last night he and the others were found safe and sound in an abandoned storefront. The perpetrators themselves had been crammed into a cage made from gold, fitting for their crime. There’s no additional camera footage, not this time, but it’s obvious to everyone who’s to thank. The radio plays a emotionally-charged sound bite from one of the scottie’s owners, a precocious six-year old girl, who proclaims Midas as her and her dog’s hero. 

Not for the first time, Yuuri wonders if the man he found in his garden and Midas are really the same person. The more Yuuri thinks about it, the deeper down the bewildering rabbit hole he tumbles. He had originally come to the conclusion that the connection between the two was coincidental, with the stranger’s resemblance to the news footage being a mere fluke. But that was before what accounted to a jeweler’s year supply of gold showed up on Yuuri’s doorstep. So now he’s not sure what to believe. 

It’s going to plague Yuuri until he finds out more. Though he doesn’t even know where to begin to search for answers. 

☙❀❧

When Yuuri arrives at Pet Merchandise Castle, Yuuko is outside, propping open the front door to get the light summer cross-breeze to circulate throughout the shop. She greets him with an enthusiastic, “Good morning, Yuuri-kun!” and then coos at Vicchan through the lowered passenger window. “Oh, look at you! You’ve gotten so big since the last time I saw you!”

“Hi, Yuu-chan,” Yuuri says with a wave. After he makes sure the parked van is turned off, keys out of the ignition and shoved into his pocket, he reaches over to unbuckle Vicchan from his seat before the puppy gets himself caught up in it in his excitement. “Are the girls here with you today?”

“Yep, like always! They’re going to be so happy to see you two.” Yuuko turns towards the shop and cups her hands around her mouth. “Girls, there’s someone special here to see you!”

There’s the squeak of multiple sneakers against linoleum and then Yuuko’s triplets poke their heads out from the sides of the doorframe. 

“Who is it, Mom?”

“Oh, Yuuri’s here!”

“And he brought Vicchan!”

In a flash the girls swarm the van, speaking on top of each other in rapidfire succession.

“Look at how cute Vicchan is! I wish we could keep him!”

“Can we take him for a walk around the block?”

“Has he been fed yet? We have plenty of treats we can give him!”

“I wanna play with him first, okay?”

“No, I do!”

“Me, me!”

“ _Heyyyyy_!” Yuuko shouts just as Yuuri’s head is starting to spin. Once the triplets settle down, she gives them the patented ‘do _not_ embarrass me in front of company or you _will_ regret it later’ smile that all mothers seem to possess. “I’m sure if you’re nice and _quiet_ , Yuuri-kun will be more than happy to let you take Vicchan into the backroom to play.”

“I don’t mind,” Yuuri says with a shrug as three sets of begging eyes turn on him. “Vicchan will probably love it.”

A chorus of ‘thank you, Yuuri!’ later, the triplets rush off with Vicchan in tow, no doubt on their way to spoil him rotten.

“Sorry they ganged up on you like that,” Yuuko says while closing the van door for Yuuri after he gets his shipment out. “They’ve been driving me up the wall since school let out for the summer, asking about ‘Vicchan this’ and ‘Vicchan that.’ You would think that they would see enough dogs to last an entire lifetime after spending all their time in here, but _nooooo…_ ”

Yuuri grins, a spike of paternal pride running through him to hear his puppy is so popular. “He loves visiting them too, so this is perfect,” he says. “Maybe they can wear each other out.”

“That’d be great,” Yuuko says, her voice filled with wistful longing. “I don’t know where those three get their energy from.” She clears a spot on the counter for Yuuri to put his box down and then dusts off her hands. “Is there any more that needs to be brought in? Takeshi is doing inventory in storage right now, but I can call him to come help.”

“No, this is it. Unless you needed more than what you told me over the phone?”

Yuuko shakes her head and lets out a heavy sigh. “Not really. I’ve been trying to push it to people and even let them sample products to smell how wonderful it is, but the shop hasn’t had much business at all lately.”

“I understand.” Honestly, Yuuri is just thankful to have the opportunity to at least get his brand out to customers without having to pay a huge overhead for retail space. “Maybe we can do a summertime promotion with the organic insect repellent to help—”

The phone behind the counter rings and Yuuko leans over to answer it. “Hello, Pet Merchandise Castle, how can I help you today?” She mouths ‘sorry’ to Yuuri before turning her attention back to the phone. “Yes, this is she.”

Wanting to give Yuuko her privacy, Yuuri goes to place the stock he’s brought with him into the custom display he’s had made for the store. He’s happy to note that there are some empty spots from where product has sold, but Yuuko’s right, most of it hasn’t moved. It’s to be expected; while there’s been a surge in popularity of aromatherapy and holistic health products, it’s still a relatively niche market. He could lower the retail price again, but he’s barely making any net profit as it is with production costs how they are now. When he decided to open his own business though, he knew things were going to be tight for the first year or two. So he’s not willing to throw the towel in just yet. 

He hears the click of the phone being placed back on the cradle from behind him. “Hey Yuu-chan,” he says over his shoulder, “what do you think about—”

The sound of sniffling catches him off guard, and when he whirls around to face Yuuko she’s trembling and pale as a sheet. “That was the bank,” she whispers. “They were calling about the rent.”

It’s like a bucket of ice water has been dumped over Yuuri’s head. Yuuko has confided in him how much she and Takeshi have been struggling to keep afloat due to the low number of customers and having three growing girls at home. There’s not much more they can take before they hit their breaking point. Is this it?

“It’ll be okay,” Yuuri says automatically. In his head he’s struggling to bring up the current amounts in both his checking and saving accounts and whether he has enough to help. Maybe he’ll have that bouquet appraised and see how much he can get for it in exchange. “We’ll figure out some way to pay it—”

“No, you don’t understand!” Yuuko’s crying harder now, but she’s also beaming through her tears. “They just said it’s been taken care of for the rest of the year!”

“What?” Yuuri asks with widened eyes as Yuuko envelopes him in a tight hug. “How?”

“They said something about an anonymous donation program called ‘Golden Heros.’ It’s given to small businesses that are considered ‘integral to their community,’” Yuuko explains. “Which means our rent and utilities have been paid for up to a year, and they’re giving us an additional fifteen thousand for revitalization and expansion purposes. Oh _Yuuri,”_ she pulls back to wipe at her watery eyes, “you don’t know how relieved I am. Takeshi and I have been so worried about bills, and the girls have been begging us for a proper family vacation. Now we might actually be able to afford one!”

Suddenly, she reaches out and grabs Yuuri’s hands, determination burning in her gaze. “We should do something to celebrate!”

“Eh?” Yuuri blinks. “Me too?”

“Of course you too! You’re a part of this after all! I’m going to let Takeshi know we’re closing shop for the rest of the day if you can grab Vicchan and the girls!”

“Wait, you want to go now? But—”

Yuuri’s protest dies in his throat when Yuuko fixes him with a pleading look. So that’s where the girls get it from. “Please?” she asks.

There’s no way Yuuri can say no now. His childhood crush on her has faded to familial amiability ages ago, yet he still can’t resist a chance to make her happy. “Okay, I can go, but—”

The rest of his words are drowned out by Yuuko’s happy shrieking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~Victor: Subtlety? I don't know her.~~


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your wonderful comments and patience! RL and other projects have been kicking my butt recently, but I’m determined to see this story through!! ᕦ(ò_óˇ)ᕤ

When Yuuri finally returns home, it’s a quarter after six. Vicchan is snoring in his seat, sprawled out on his back and oblivious to the rest of the world, completely tuckered out from spending the day with the triplets. The girls had been equally tired, nearly falling over their feet as they piled into their family car at the end of the impromptu trip to the local park, the afternoon filled with so many scoops of celebratory ice cream that Yuuri gets a little queasy just remembering it. 

Despite his earlier reluctance to come, he has to admit he’s missed spending time with his friends. Though once he realized how late in the day it was, he had hastily made his goodbyes and promised to do this again, willing to agree to almost anything as long as it meant him getting on the road faster. He worried the entire drive back, gripping the steering wheel so tight his knuckles turned a bloodless white.

Since he and Victor haven’t established a set time for dinner, Yuuri’s fearful that he’s going to be late. Or worse, that he’s already missed it. Of course, this fear sets off a chain reaction of worst case scenarios flooding his brain, ranging from Victor thinking Yuuri stood him up to Victor changing his mind about the whole thing.

(Truthfully, Yuuri isn’t sure which possibility eats away at him more.)

The moment he walks up to his porch, he sees a piece of paper affixed to the front door. His immediate thought is that it’s yet another message from Midas, but upon closer inspection, it’s a note with four simple words: ‘ _meet me in back_ ,’ plus an arrow in the direction of the garden. Yuuri shifts Vicchan’s dead weight in his arms and debates bringing the still sleeping puppy inside before doing anything else, but eventually curiosity wins out. 

As Yuuri goes along the side of the house, there’s more and more pieces of paper with arrows on them, like clues to a scavenger hunt. There’s even an ‘X’ on the one attached to the garden gate, and he pushes it open slowly, not sure what to expect. 

“...Victor,” Yuuri says, standing stock-still at the scene before him. “Why are you here?”

“Yuuri, there you are!” Victor calls out and waves from the classic red-and-white checkered picnic blanket spread out on the ground. “I was wondering when you were going to show up.” He winks and then pats the space next to him. “Come, have a seat with me. Are you hungry?”

This shouldn’t be possible. Yuuri knows he latched the gate shut before he left, having learnt the error of his previous ways. Or, at least he _thought_ he had. 

He sinks down on the blanket, watching with widened eyes as Victor begins to pull out food storage containers from the wicker basket by his side. “When did you get here?” Yuuri asks.

“Not too long ago,” Victor says. When Yuuri opens his mouth to ask for more clarification, Victor beats him to it. “A half hour or so, maybe. But ah, don’t worry! I’ve kept everything cold for you.” He hands over a plate loaded with various cheeses, salami, bread, vegetables, and fresh fruit. “Though next time we have to figure out a way to make shashlik over a fire. That way I can treat you to an authentic Russian picnic.”

Yuuri swears his heart skips a beat at the mention of ‘next time,’ surprised Victor has already planned that far ahead.

The thought of eating now holds no appeal when he’s still full from earlier, but Yuuri doesn’t want to be rude when Victor’s gone through all the trouble of preparing a meal. So he places Vicchan down on a corner of the blanket before grabbing the offered plate. “What would you have done,” he starts to ask while picking at a flaky poppy seed roll, “if I hadn’t come back here?”

“Hmm?” Victor cocks his head to the side and taps his chin. “Why wouldn’t you?” He chuckles a little. “It’s _your_ garden, remember?”

 _Like you said, it is_ your _garden_.

Yuuri blinks at the similarity to the other night and then huffs out a soft amused laugh. “It’s funny,” he says when Victor looks at him, strange but fond, “you’re the second person who’s said that to me just this week.”

“Oh?” Victor says. He then places his hand on Yuuri’s knee for support as he leans in close. “...Tell me, Yuuri,” he murmurs, “do you often make a habit of letting people inside your garden?”

The heat from Victor’s palm sinks through the denim of Yuuri’s jeans and causes the skin underneath to tingle. Yuuri shivers at the sensation as it travels all the way up his body and then exits through the heat cast off by his pinkened cheeks. “No, not really!” He blurts out, shaking his head, but then he tears his eyes upwards so his and Victor’s gazes meet. “But...I think I can make a certain exception.”

The effect is immediate. Victor’s mouth rounds into a small ‘o’ shape, his glacier blue eyes alight, and a splash of pink begins to blossom across his face. It reminds Yuuri of the delicate buds opening on a peony bush, and his hands twitch with the urge to trace a finger along Victor’s skin. Would it feel just as silky and delicate as the petals of a gardenia, or smooth and velvety like the leaves of an African violet?

He’s torn from his clichéd comparison of Victor to flowers by the sound of a shaky exhale. “...Wow,” Victor says, his voice low and breathy, curling around Yuuri like climbing English ivy. His hand slides upwards, his thumb dipping into inner fleshy part of Yuuri’s mid-thigh. “I like the sound of that.”

“Of course, Makkachin can come too,” Yuuri adds as a hasty afterthought, not wanting anyone to feel excluded. “You’re both welcome to visit whenever you want.”

Victor studies Yuuri for a quiet second or so until he suddenly nods with a million-watt smile. “Okay,” he says. “We will. Thank you.” 

After a final squeeze, his hand lifts off from Yuuri’s leg to grab the bottle of Italian prosecco chilling in the metal ice bucket behind them. The expanse of skin that was underneath his touch now feels deceptively cool once it’s devoid of his warmth. Yuuri tries not to mourn its absence, wilting like a sunflower on a cloudy day, but fails. 

“I mean, you said you two stop by every day anyway, right?” Yuuri knows he’s on the cusp of babbling, unable to stop, a trait of his whenever he feels pressed into conversation. When Victor offers him a glass of the sparkling wine, Yuuri takes it and downs a grateful gulp in desperate need of liquid fortitude. “Have you ever thought about starting your own?”

“I don’t think it’s for me, at least not like this.” Victor gestures to the scenery around them. He sips his own drink—with much more finesse than Yuuri could ever manage—before he continues. “What you’ve created here is nothing short of amazing. I love watching it shift with the seasons and flourish under your careful hands, like masterful strokes of paint that could rival the works of Van Gogh or Monet,” he says. As over the top and flowery as they are, there’s nothing in his words to suggest he’s being anything but completely genuine. His stare burns with an intense sincerity. “You have a real gift, Yuuri.”

Any possible response Yuuri can say to that gets lodged in his throat. He tries washing it down with the rest of his wine, tipping the glass back until it’s dry. He regrets the decision when the bubbles burn his nostrils not long after and trigger a slight coughing spasm. “It’s not as difficult as people think it is,” he finally rasps in between his wheezing, tears in his eyes, “once you get the hang of it. But I guess not everyone can have a green thumb.” 

His older sister, Mari, likes to joke that Yuuri is something of anomaly among the family, considering the rest of the Katsuki clan can just be in the same vicinity of a plant for it to wither and die. 

Amusement dances across Victor’s features as he gives Yuuri a couple sympathetic thumps on the back. “Not a green thumb, no,” he says, “but I certainly have other ways to pass the time and keep me busy.”

“Such as?” Yuuri has always wondered what Victor does for a living. Judging by his impeccable and expensive taste in fashion, as well as the pink convertible Cadillac he’s been spotted driving around the neighborhood, it must pay relatively decent. Which is why the fact he chooses to stop in Yuuri’s garden when he could probably call a landscaping company to cultivate his own is surprising. 

“Good question.” Victor brings the bottle of wine up to refill Yuuri’s glass, their hands grazing against each other in the process. Then in a blink of an eye, they’re separated again. “I guess the best way you can describe what I do is say I’m a freelancer. Most people don’t realize it’s myself behind the mask, but they’d recognize my work if it was pointed out to them.”

“Ah, an unsung hero then,” Yuuri muses. He can’t imagine Victor working in the shadows, his larger-than-life presence and personality more suited for being front and center under the limelight. 

( _Where he belongs_ , a voice in the back of his mind tacks on.)

Yuuri sips his drink, a little more cautious this time. “Would I know any of it?” he asks. 

“I would certainly hope so,” Victor says. He chortles like it’s a private joke between them. Yuuri doesn’t get what’s so funny, feeling like he’s missed the punchline somewhere along the conversation. He knows he hasn’t consumed _that_ much wine already, his tolerance for alcohol rather high in part to being a Kyushu man born and bred, but past experience dictates he can lose count of the number of drinks he’s downed pretty quickly if he’s not careful. The last thing he wants to do is reveal that wild side of him to Victor, especially at their first dinner together. 

Before Yuuri can admit ignorance, Victor clinks their glasses together. “Za vstrechi,” he says and holds his glass aloft. “Vyp'yem za to, chto my zdes' sobralis', i chtoby chashche sobiralis'!” At Yuuri’s blank look, Victor explains, “Cheers to our meeting each other, and hopes we can do this more often.”

“Oh. Yeah, right.” Yuuri nods. He’s not even going to attempt to repeat that when he’s guaranteed to mangle the pronunciation, but he still joins in raising a glass. “To us, I guess.”

“To us,” Victor echoes before he finishes his glass, and soon Yuuri follows suit. 

It’s a minuscule amount, still barely enough to get him buzzed, but maybe it’s working overtime tonight. Or maybe the events from the day and the sleepless night prior are catching up to him. Or maybe it’s a combination of the two. That last option seems like the most likely as to why one minute he’s listening to Victor talk about what sort of diet plan he has Makkachin on—it comes as no surprise that Victor prepares all her meals by scratch from the freshest organic ingredients, only the very best—and the next minute Yuuri’s eyes are snapping open to find his head resting on a firm, warm pillow. 

A pillow which also happens to be Victor’s lap. 

Yuuri springs up the instant he realizes what he’s done, confused as to why the whole world is blurry until he comprehends his glasses are missing. After much scrambling, he locates them on top of his head and slides them back on, blinking at the difference in vision. The inside of his mouth is as parched and rough as the Sahara Desert, suggesting he’s been drooling in his sleep, and sure enough, there’s a small damp patch on Victor’s pants where Yuuri’s head has been. 

It’s about this time that Yuuri wishes he had choked on his tongue to save himself from the mortification. 

“Let me guess,” Victor begins with a chuckle, and oh, Yuuri can’t even _look_ in his direction right now, “falling asleep on people is another habit of yours?”

“Sorry!” Yuuri shouts, knees folded underneath him as he bows so low he can feel the blades of grass scratch against his forehead. “I didn’t mean to, it’s just been a long day but—”

“Yuuri, it’s okay,” Victor reassures him. “To be honest, I knew you were tired; I’ve been watching your eyelids droop all night and was keeping track on how much time it was going to take before you gave in. You lasted a lot longer than I thought you would.” 

“Really?” Yuuri raises his head to peek at Victor’s expression. He doesn’t look frustrated or disappointed like to be expected. Instead his eyes are sparkling, his smile kind. Instantly relief washes over Yuuri, though it will take some more time for the embarrassment to unknot in his belly. 

“Really,” Victor replies. He lowers a hand down to brush some bangs back from Yuuri’s face. “Besides, if you really want to make it up to me, I think you know how to do it by now.”

Yuuri returns Victor’s smile, albeit more hesitant, and asks, “Another dinner?”

“Mhmm,” Victor hums, his smile widening until it stretches from ear to ear. “That’s a good start.”

☙❀❧

A second dinner becomes a third, a fourth, a fifth, so on and so forth, until Yuuri stops bothering to count them altogether. Some are dinners in actual restaurants, often involving too many forks than Yuuri knows what to do with. If Victor would ever let him see the bill the waitstaff brings at the end (which he never does), Yuuri is sure the total cost of their meals is equivalent to his profits for at least a week. 

(It’s also the reason he finally relents and accepts Phichit’s offer of a shopping trip to update his wardrobe. Yuuri’s never concerned himself with following the latest fashion trends before, but he knows his everyday clothes aren’t going to cut it for establishments where even the busboys wear ties. _Actual_ ties even, not clip-ons. 

To his credit, Phichit helps pick out sensible outfits, i.e. ones that don’t display catchphrases on Yuuri’s backside. So there’s that at least. 

The fact he makes Yuuri model in the dressing room and posts the photos to Instagram where plenty of people, including somehow Victor himself, like it? That’s a whole different story.)

It unsettles Yuuri at times, the obvious difference in their financial situations, only because he doesn’t want Victor to feel like he’s required to spend money on him. Sure, business might be slow at the moment, but Yuuri can still pay his bills on relative time, put gas in his fuel-guzzler of a van, and have a solid roof over his head. So he can cover his share of dinner every now and then without taking out a minor bank loan in the process. 

Victor insists that it’s fine. He says he wants to spoil Yuuri like Yuuri supposedly does to him (though Yuuri doesn’t know exactly _how_ ), and it's not like he can’t get more where that came from. He always says the last bit with that secretive laugh of his, which has become mostly endearing (because it’s Victor) but also a smidgen frustrating (because it’s _Victor_ ). 

At least they both prefer sharing dinner out in the garden like their first time, just the two of them, or four when Vicchan and Makkachin join in. Victor does make Yuuri shashlik eventually, prepared over a makeshift grill pit they build in an open corner away from anything flammable. The moment Yuuri bites down on the skewered pork slathered in mint Greek yogurt dressing, juices from the savory meat dribbling down his chin, he’s in pure heaven. To the point where he may have released a satisfied moan or two as the flavors dance across his tongue. 

(His enjoyment is interrupted when Victor starts choking. He swears he’s fine when Yuuri asks, even while his face continues to turn a bright cherry red. And for the rest of the evening, he keeps sneaking furtive glances in Yuuri’s direction that are impossible to understand.)

In return, Yuuri prepares his favorite meal of katsudon following his mother’s recipe, and serves it to an eager Victor. 

“It’s probably not as good as my mother’s,” he apologizes, fidgeting a little as he waits for Victor to try it. “But I hope you like it.”

“It’s delicious!” Victor cries out. He works the chopsticks like a natural to shovel bite after bite into his mouth. “If your mother’s cooking is better than this, then I definitely can’t wait to meet her!”

Yuuri stills. It’s been a little over a month since they’ve begun to have dinner together, the sticky heat of midsummer nearly smothering even under the cool comfort of the shady treeline. “You want to meet my mother?” he asks, hushed, almost under his breath. 

Victor stops mid-chew to put his bowl down and nod. “And the rest of your family too,” he says, “but it doesn’t have to be anytime soon.” He interweaves his hand with Yuuri’s, their fingers slotting into place, and squeezes. “If that’s okay.”

To be honest, it’s not something Yuuri’s has yet to put much thought in. It’s not that he’s worried that his family won’t approve; he knows they’ll welcome Victor into their home with open arms, no questions asked. It’s just, Yuuri’s never brought someone home, not like Victor. It seems so serious, so definite, and he half-expects his anxiety to flare up at the thought. 

It doesn’t. It’s still present of course, a faint buzz underneath the surface, but it’s drowned out by a sudden desire that takes him by surprise: he wants Victor to compliment his mother’s cooking as she pulls out all the stops to impress him with her culinary prowess. He wants Victor to laugh at his father’s corny jokes, though Yuuri can only imagine what sort of intoxicated antics the two of them would get into if they start drinking together. He wants Victor to chat about the day with his sister over the family dinner table, matching her easy-going manner, even if it results in Mari performing her older sibling duty of teasing Yuuri mercilessly about it in Japanese the first chance she gets.

He wants that. He wants it all. 

Not right now though. The thing he has with Victor is still a fresh delicate fledgling, the first sign of life after a long winter’s frost. Plus, he’s being admittedly selfish in wanting to keep Victor to himself for awhile longer. 

“Okay,” Yuuri says as a delayed response to Victor’s indirect question, and squeezes his hand back in return. 

The radiant glow from Victor’s resulting smile is liable to make Yuuri’s heart flip-flop right out of his chest. It’s the kind of smile that once again makes Yuuri wonder what exactly the nature of their relationship is—and what he wants it to be if given the choice. Victor hasn’t said or done anything to really suggest he wants to be more than friends, but then he also doesn’t bother to correct the waitstaff at restaurants whenever they refer to him and Yuuri as a couple. So that’s not helpful. 

As if Yuuri’s not confused about his feelings enough, then there’s Midas. 

For some odd reason, the anonymous gifts haven’t stopped after the first bouquet. The next week, Yuuri discovers the lilies. After that, tulips. And then there’s the assortment of daisies and sunflowers. All of them are left sight unseen on his porch overnight and made from pure solid gold so fine and well-crafted they could easily be confused for the real thing. Then again, if it is Midas leaving them behind, they probably were real flowers at one time before being transformed. Yuuri can even see the droplets of water running down the stems, forever frozen in place. 

There’s never any actual name attached, only notes signed with the poodle drawing that Yuuri has quickly learned to be Midas’s calling sign. As for notes themselves, they’re overtly more sappy and over-the-top in their prose than a single random night warrants. ‘ _You’re more valuable than all the gold in the world,_ ’ one proclaims. ‘ _Being in your garden with you is like being in Eden itself_ ,’ preaches another. 

Yuuri doesn’t understand why. Yeah, sometimes he catches himself idly wondering about Midas and what exactly transpired between the two of them, but nothing more than that. This feels different, somehow. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think Midas knows him on a personal level, given the intimate tone of the writing. 

The bouquets pile up next to the front door because Yuuri has yet to find a place to put them. The option of exchanging them for cold hard cash continues to loom in the back of his mind, muffled by the possibility of it being rude. It’s unlikely Midas will ever find out, but _still_. 

Strangely enough, whenever Victor spots them, he gets the biggest grin on his face and teases Yuuri about having a secret admirer, but never questions who they might be from. Yuuri wants to tell him, and has almost let it slip out a few times, only to catch himself at the last second. It’s not like he wants to keep it a secret from Victor—he _doesn’t_ —he just doesn’t know how Victor will react, considering how touchy he is with the subject of Midas. 

It’s...weird. Yuuri can count on Victor to be honest, sometimes brutally so, and to carry the conversation forward by himself during the times when Yuuri runs out of steam. That’s why it’s so surreal that whenever they’re lounging together on Yuuri’s couch and news about Midas comes on, Victor gets uncharacteristically subdued. He’ll have the façade of his normal cheery self pasted on, but there’ll be tightness in the stark lines underneath his eyes. His jaw will clench, his eyes filled with a somber, almost unseeing haze. When Yuuri abruptly changes the channel with the hurried excuse of forgetting a show he wanted to watch is on, he can feel Victor’s tense body loosen beside him. 

He doesn’t know what the deal between Victor and Midas is, and frankly, Yuuri won’t worry about it (too much) unless Victor is ready to tell him. 

As for the gifts, Yuuri hopes they will eventually taper off on their own and save himself the trouble explaining, but if anything they increase in frequency. Now it’s not just bouquets, but various trinkets as well. He appreciates the heartfelt sentiment behind them, but really: when is he _ever_ going to use a solid gold shovel?

When he says this out loud, Victor frowns and asks, “I thought you said you needed a new one after your last one broke?”

“I meant a regular steel shovel,” Yuuri says. He pushes his sweaty bangs back to keep them out of his face while he’s elbow-deep in potting soil, grimacing at the smear of dirt he now feels caked on his forehead. “Not one I’m afraid to use because it’s worth more than I’ll ever make in a lifetime. That’s too much.”

“But _Yuuuuuri_ ,” Victor whines in protest while draping himself over Yuuri’s back. He’s become increasingly tactile lately, much more than usual, but Yuuri’s been conditioned enough by now to not shy away from it like he has before. Even now, while the two of them are both currently hot and damp and gross from toiling under the unforgiving July sun all afternoon, he doesn’t move to push Victor off. 

“How will I be able to get you anything then?” Victor continues, his tone pleading.

Yuuri sighs. He tugs off his gardening gloves before twisting his body around to face Victor, who is predictably pouting. “ _You_ don’t have to get me anything,” Yuuri says, lightly poking Victor square in the chest to make his point. “No one does. I can get my own gardening supplies, and flowers, and everything else.”

“But—”

“Look, if you want, later after we clean up and I take like, a thousand showers to try and scrub all the layers of dirt off of me, we can go down to the castle and you can pick out something new for Vicchan and Makkachin,” Yuuri offers. He figures that’s a good compromise; Victor loves to spoil their dogs as much as he does Yuuri. “But we need to finish transplanting these juniper shrubs first.”

(Looking back in retrospect, he should’ve known something was up when there’s a set of gold dishes left for Vicchan the following day.)


	5. Chapter 5

There’s a pounding in Yuuri’s temples and at his front door. 

He groans, unwilling to get up from the spot on the couch where he’s been wrapped up into a blanket burrito for the past twenty minutes or so to go answer the door. He’s not expecting company. Not after Victor called earlier, his voice filled to the brim with regret as he explained he had to reschedule their lunch planned for later this afternoon. He didn’t go into details as to why—he never does; Yuuri figures it has something to do with a client-confidentiality clause—only stating he needed to take care of the issue today. 

“I wanted to have lunch with you more than anything,” he said, a hint of a whine under his breath, “but I—”

“It’s okay,” Yuuri said. He forced a strained smile through clenched teeth, even if Victor wasn’t there to see it. Yuuri hoped it would mask his disappointment. The last thing Victor needed was extra guilt heaped on top of him when he sounded wretched enough as it was. “I understand. You need to do what you need to do.”

“But Yuuri—”

“Tell me about it over dinner,” Yuuri said, cutting off any further protest for both of their sakes. It’s unlikely Victor will take him up on the offer, not when he’s usually more interested in talking about Yuuri or the garden or their dogs (or anything else, really), but Yuuri wanted to remind him that the option is always there if Victor ever wants it. Plus, Yuuri figured the promise of dinner would make Victor feel better about canceling lunch. “I think it’s your turn to cook, right? Though I can make the drinks.” He has a little bit of fresh mint left, and cool crisp mojitos might be the best thing to combat the overbearing mugginess of the early August weather that clings to his skin the instant he steps outside. 

There was a shaky exhale on the other end of the line, followed by a huff of laughter. “Bozhe moi, Ya tebya lyublyu,” Victor finally murmured. Before Yuuri was able to request a translation, Victor added, “Okay, dinner it is then. I’ll see you at six.”

At least they’ll have dinner together. That’s what Yuuri keeps reminding himself over and over from the moment they hung up. It’s the only thing that’s lessened the uncomfortable weight that’s gathered girth in his chest and sunk low into his gut. 

He’s well aware he’s pantomiming the very definition of pathetic right now. It’s partly because he’s been spoiled by how seamless Victor’s presence has integrated into his life. Now when nine in the morning rolls around, instead of just waving at Victor and Makkachin from the window, Yuuri has Vicchan harnessed and ready for what has become their daily walk-slash-jog together. Instead of a solo trip to the grocery store, shopping for ingredients to make yet another solitary dinner for one, Yuuri has Victor to bounce ideas off of for which meal they want to try together next. Instead of staying home on a Friday night and watch movies by himself, Yuuri can toss popcorn into Victor’s awaiting mouth and vice versa, their dogs at their feet happily cleaning up any pieces that miss their mark. 

It’s unfair how much Yuuri has grown to rely on Victor without even realizing it. A part of him is uncomfortable with it, the same traitorous part that hisses in his ear that he doesn’t know how long Victor is going to be around. He doesn’t think Victor is going to leave any time soon, not voluntarily, but anything can happen. It’s that possibility of ‘anything’ that juts out like a bent nail, ready to snag and rip if Yuuri lets himself dwell on it. 

Right, dinner. He has to focus on that, running over it in his mind like a worry stone. 

Besides, maybe it’s a blessing in disguise that their meal has been pushed back because Yuuri’s been up the entire night before, scrambling to finish orders. Sales at Pet Merchandise Castle have turned a complete 180° in the past two months, to the point where his products are flying off the shelves far faster than he can keep them in stock. On top of that, his phone has been ringing off the hook from businesses who now have his contact information, even though he doesn’t remember passing it out. There’s been grooming salons, doggie daycares, and kennels, even other pet supply stores, though he turns those last ones down due to a steadfast loyalty to Yuuko. 

Yuuri has no idea where the unexpected burst of customers came from, but he’s not about to look a gift horse in the mouth, not when his total profits for the month are running way in the black for once. If this level of supply and demand keeps up, he might even be able to hire that one neighborhood teen who’s been begging to be his part-time apprentice for months now. Though Yuuri still isn’t convinced Minami’s over-abundance of energy is such a good fit for the more delicate aspects of the job. The kid means well and shows a genuine potential, but it can be hard to keep up with his mile-a-minute high-octane personality. 

As for right now, since Yuuri no longer has to get ready for lunch, he decides this is his chance for a quick nap, and then he can finish any last-minute preparations he didn’t get around to last night. Maybe he’ll even tackle some of the household chores he’s been neglecting in favor of work and time with Victor. 

Well, that _was_ the plan. Except the problem is, whoever is at the front door seems determined to break it off its hinges. There’s been nearly a solid half-minute of continuous _thump thump thump_ with no sign of it slowing or stopping any time soon. 

Resigning himself to a napless fate, Yuuri drags himself to his feet and shuffles to the door. The second he has it cracked even the slightest to see who’s there, it’s shoved open the rest of the way and a flash of blonde hair barrels past him, yelling, “Victor!! _Where the hell are you?!_ ”

Yuuri stares with widened eyes at the strange teenage boy now standing in the middle of the foyer. He’s petite in stature, a few inches shorter than Yuuri himself, but the hardened glint in the boy’s green eyes broadcasts warning sirens not to underestimate him. His accent is thick and harsh, smudging the consonants in a way that’s reminiscent of Victor’s, so Yuuri’s first thought is maybe the two of them are related. Victor’s never mentioned him or anyone else before though, usually avoiding the entire subject of family and friends altogether.

(Now that Yuuri’s thinking about it more and more, he’s starting to notice a recurring theme here.)

“Victor isn’t here right now,” Yuuri says, his hand still clutching the doorknob, mid-turn. “He’s not coming over until later tonight.” 

The teenager whirls around as if noticing Yuuri for the first time, and the scowl on his face grows darker. “You!” He steps straight up into Yuuri’s personal space and jabs an accusatory finger into his line of sight. “Where is the old man? He’s not at home or answering his phone, and lately, all he can talk about is you and your dumb garden, so I figured he had to be over here, _again_.”

“He talks about me?” Yuuri asks. Of course, Phichit has heard Yuuri gush about Victor in what Phichit used to refer to as the ‘Infamous Hot Neighbor Chronicles’, but has since updated it to a simple mash-up of Victor and Yuuri’s names to ‘Hashtag Victuuri Goals’. Yuuko has grown used to spotting Victor and Yuuri shopping together in the store and is (thankfully) there to drag the triplets away to the back room whenever the three of them begin to ask embarrassing personal questions, the kind that only children with no established social filter can ask. Then there’s the video call with Yuuri’s parents last week, where his mother commented how happy and relaxed Yuuri has been looking lately, and he wound up confessing it’s due mostly in part to Victor. After that, he had to explain who Victor was and how they met, answering his mother’s and father’s rapid-fire questions as quickly as he could while blatantly ignoring Mari grinning at him like a Cheshire cat from the background.

Never did Yuuri stop to consider the possibility Victor has been doing something similar. 

“More like he won’t shut up about you,” comes the growled out response. “As if it’s not bad enough that you stole my name, I have to put up with that idiot always going, ‘my Yuuri’ this and ‘my Yuuri’ that every time he opens his damn big mouth. It’s annoying.”

_My Yuuri._ Victor uses ‘my Yuuri’ when speaking to others. The thought releases a cascade of warmth that floods Yuuri’s chest and spills out from the corners of his smile—wait. “What do you mean, stole your name?”

“God, do I have to spell it out for you?” A student ID is thrust in front of Yuuri’s vision, the protective laminated plastic peeling off along the edges of the card. It’s embossed with the blue and white logo from a local high school along with their lion mascot, followed by the words ‘Plisetsky, Yuri’ underneath a grainy photograph of the sullen teenager himself. “He’s _my_ cousin, so I was here first. I shouldn’t have to share my name with someone like you.”

A cousin. Viktor has a cousin. Yuuri looks back and forth between the card and ‘Yuri’ and then shakes his head. “I don’t remember him mentioning you, sorry—”

“Tch, figures.” Yuri slips the ID back into his metal studded tiger-striped wallet and closes it with a loud snap. “He probably forgot I was even stuck with him this weekend. I give up the chance to hang out with my friends only for the asshole to not even be home when I show up.”

Oh. Yuuri’s starting to suspect what’s really going on here. “Don’t worry,” he says, “I don’t think he’s ignoring you on purpose.” He shuts the door and gestures towards the living room, motioning for Yuri to take a seat. It’s not usual for him to be so cavalier with strangers in the privacy of his home, but he can’t kick Yuri out to wait for Victor to show up either, not in this heat. Yuuri will have to send a brief text when he gets the chance to let Victor know about the situation. “From his phone call earlier, it sounded like something important came up and he had to reschedule a lot of things. He says he’s coming over for dinner later tonight though.” He pauses and then adds, “You can join us if you want.”

“Ugh, no way.” Yuri wrinkles his nose as he plops down on the couch, his shoes propped up on the armrest, much to Yuuri’s chagrin. The couch may be a thrift store find that’s on its last wobbly legs, but it’s still his property. “I don’t want to be stuck in the middle of a date with you two making goo-goo eyes at each other.”

“It’s not a d—” Yuuri begins to argue, but then stops and reconsiders. He’s used to calling it ‘just dinner,’ but it’s been more than that for awhile now, at least for him. He hasn’t asked for Victor’s personal thoughts on the matter because, well, ‘ignorance is bliss’ and all. “It’s not like that,” he finishes. 

Yuri snorts and folds his arms underneath his head. “Whatever,” he says. “It’s not like I really give a shit what you two do anyway.” He turns his head to look Yuuri up and down with a probing stare. It’s crystal clear he’s not impressed by what he finds. “Though I don’t get what he sees in you.”

Whether Yuri is Victor’s cousin or not, Yuuri’s in no mood to be intimidated by a _teenager_. Especially one he doesn’t even know. “Maybe it’s my ability to keep my feet off other people’s furniture?” Yuuri fires back without thinking twice, half of a wry smirk on his face. He leans back so his stance open and nonchalant, his hands stuck in the pockets at his hips. “Why does it matter to you? You just said you don’t care what Victor and I do.”

“I _don’t_ ,” Yuri snaps in return. Yuuri notices he does drop his feet off the couch though. “Except like I said, you’re all he wants to talk about.” Yuri stares at Yuuri again like he half-expects him to transform into something magical before his eyes. “What makes you so special?”

Yuuri shrugs. “You need to ask Victor that,” he says, “not me.” 

He could repeat any of the numerous compliments Victor has showered him in, ranging from his garden to his cooking, but he gets the sense Yuri’s heard something similar before. It’d be like rubbing salt into a fresh wound. 

Instead, Yuuri tries to place himself in Yuri’s shoes. The thought of being replaced in Victor’s life by someone else triggers a spike of jealousy so sharp it twists the air out of Yuuri’s lungs. That’s only after knowing each other a few months, not an entire lifetime. 

So yeah, he can see where Yuri’s resentment stems from. 

“It sounds like the two of you are close,” Yuuri says quietly while taking a seat in the little space that’s left on the couch. He makes sure to not crowd into Yuri’s personal bubble, approaching like he’s checking on a wild animal, but maintains a close enough distance to show he’s invested in what Yuri has to say. 

“We were, once,” Yuri huffs and darts his gaze away. When he speaks again, his voice is softer, faint, so much so that Yuuri almost has to strain to hear it. “When I was a kid, he was around so much that it was more like he was the older brother I never had. I thought he was so freaking cool until I grew old enough to know better.”

“What happened?” Yuuri asks. It feels wrong to talk about Victor when he’s not there and present to speak for himself, but it doesn’t seem right for Yuri’s feelings to be brushed aside either. “What changed?”

“Victor did,” Yuri says. He shrugs it off, half-hearted, the practiced motion of someone who’s used to constant disappointment. “He started to disappear a lot, not stopping by as much as he used to, or if he even bothered to show up at all. Something always seemed to come up at the last minute, or he’d say he ‘forgot’ we were supposed to spend time together. He’d never say what the reason was. Just something he thought was more important than me.”

Yuuri’s experienced occasional examples of Victor’s forgetfulness first hand; there have been occasions where he’ll have to repeat himself over something that’s slipped Victor’s mind, but nothing Yuuri would label as intentional or malicious. “I’m sure he—”

“ _Shut up_ ,” Yuri snarls, hackles raised and eyes twitching. “I didn't need him then and I sure as hell don’t need him now! So whatever you’re going to say to try and convince me otherwise, you can take and shove it, got it?”

“Right.” Yuuri holds up his hands, palms forward. He wonders if he was even half this temperamental as a teen. If so, Hiroko Katsuki deserves sainthood, more than she does already. “Got it.”

“Good.” Seemingly satisfied by Yuuri’s response, Yuri settles back down on the couch. “…The worst part is,” he adds, “whenever he was around, he’d pretend like everything was fine, acting like his usual self. Everyday Victor, laughing and joking around, not taking shit seriously, thinking he was so great that nothing could touch him. But it wasn’t the same. He wasn’t the same.” Yuri glares sharpened daggers at Yuuri. “Then you came along and made him even more annoying than before.”

“Eh?” Yuuri blinks and points at himself. “Me? But I didn’t do anything.”

There’s a beat of silence that hangs over their heads as well as a stone in open water. It’s broken only by the sound Yuri’s exasperated scoff. “…Forget it, I take it all back,” he says, throwing his hands in the air. “You two clueless assholes are perfect for each other.”

“Thanks for that,” Yuuri mumbles and scratches the back of his neck. “…I think?”

That earns him a swift kick to shin as Yuri pushes off the couch and rises to his feet. “Oi, you, since Viktor’s not here to buy me lunch, make me something.”

“What?” Yuuri grimaces, rubs at the now tender spot on his shin, and mutters, “How is that my problem?”

The look Yuri shoots him could curdle milk. For the safety and protection for his other shin, Yuuri relents. It’s about that time of day anyway; he guesses he’s might as well have company for lunch after all.

☙❀❧

Yuuri leads Yuri into the kitchen and points at the tiny bistro dining set, situated next to the sliding door leading out to the garden. After the living room, it’s where Yuuri eats his indoor meals, having no need for a formal dining room when he rarely has that many people over to visit. “Sandwiches okay?” he asks.

Yuri hops on the stool, feet swinging off the ground from the height. “Yeah, whatever,” he says. “As long as you don’t treat me like a kid and make me PB & J. Victor always tries to pull that shit, forgetting I’m fifteen, not five.”

“Yeah, that sounds like him,” Yuuri says, smiling as he pulls various ingredients out from the refrigerator and onto the counter. “But I think it’s because he tries to hide he has a sweet tooth and probably wanted the excuse to eat it himself. He bought my friends’ daughters treats from an ice cream truck once and would’ve bought out the entire freezer out if we had let him.” 

He prepares both Yuri and himself a simple meal of roasted turkey and sharp cheddar sandwiches on oven baked split-wheat bread, along with a couple handfuls of kettle-cooked potato chips and a glass each of his homemade lemonade. He slides Yuri’s portion forward before he sits down on the opposite stool across the way. “Here you go. No PB & J. Promise.”

The food is barely set down in front of Yuri before he pounces upon it like a starving man, washing every morsel down with the lemonade. “More,” he demands around the chewed up food in his mouth while holding out his empty glass. Yuuri refills it and also wordlessly hands him a paper napkin, squashing the urge to reprimand him for talking with food in his mouth, figuring it would go over as well as a lead balloon. 

Somehow managing to sleep through the earlier commotion of a new person in the house, Vicchan toddles in around this time and immediately makes a beeline for the spot underneath the table, shameless in his begging for scraps. Yuuri frowns. He really should be working on the puppy training better, it’s just hard to resist such an adorable display. “Vicchan, stop.”

“Ugh.” Yuri wrinkles his nose at Vicchan sitting at his feet, paw on his sneaker. “Both you and Victor with the dogs.”

Yuuri hums in response. He knows Yuri’s words are supposed to be an insult, but he can’t find fault at being compared to Victor with their dual affinity for poodles. 

(He also graciously pretends he doesn’t catch Yuri later slipping Vicchan a piece of turkey out of the corner of his eye.)

Once they’re done eating, Yuuri goes to clear their dishes, but Yuri beats him to it. “I got it,” he says and slides off the stool. “That wasn’t too bad by the way.”

That’s probably as close to a ‘thank you’ as Yuuri is going to get. At this point, he’ll take it. “Thanks,” he says. “You can just leave them in the sink. I’ll get to them later.”

Yuri grunts his affirmative. There’s a clink of porcelain against metal as he deposits the plates in the sink, followed by what sounds like a low gasp. “…Are you growing catnip?”

“Hmm?” Yuuri looks up from his phone, in the middle of texting Victor, to the plastic planters he keeps on the window ledge above the sink. It’s where he usually he grows his more fragile seedlings before he brings them outdoors. There’s a couple of herbs there too for culinary purposes, but the majority of it is aromatherapy related somehow. “Oh yeah, and some cat grass too. I have to transplant that to the garden, but I’ve been waiting for it to get cooler—”

“Let me have some!” Yuri shouts, whirling to face Yuuri, his eyes alight like twin green flames. “I’ve been looking for live catnip for Potya everywhere!”

“‘Potya’?” Yuuri echoes, still reeling from the sudden outburst. “Who’s Potya?”

After Yuri yanks his phone out of his jean pocket, he angles it so the screen is visible. The wallpaper is of a white long-haired cat with gray markings, haughtily staring at the camera from it’s curled up position on top of a leopard-print cushion. “Puma Tiger Scorpion,” Yuri explains, flipping through his photo gallery to display more pictures. “AKA the best damn cat in the whole wide world. She loves catnip, but the dried out stuff you get in the stores is too old and stale, and the flakes get everywhere.”

The abrupt change in Yuri from ‘surly teenager’ to ‘proud pet owner’ is jarring, but also kind of cute if Yuuri is being honest. He has a feeling Yuri will chew him out if he ever mentions anything about it though. “…Tell you what,” Yuuri says, “I’ll give you one plant now, but can you promise to let me test out a new catnip hydrosol I’ve been working on with her? I have no other cats to use it with.”

The phone is snatched back from his view as Yuri glares at him, bristling with suspicion. “Never thought you’d be one of those sick secret sciencey bastards who torture animals for medical experiments.”

“No, no!” Yuuri shakes his head back and forth. “A hydrosol is a way to dilute an oil with water into kind of a fine mist, so it can be sprayed anywhere with no mess but have the same effect as catnip.” When Yuri still doesn’t look convinced, Yuuri adds, “It's completely safe, I swear! I just wanted to see how well it works compared to regular catnip.”

“Show me.”

At Yuuri’s dumbfounded expression, Yuri huffs and rolls his eyes in exasperation. “We’re going to be stuck together until Victor decides to show up, right? So you have plenty of time to show me how you make it.”

“Oh,” Yuuri says with an audible swallow. Talk about being put on the spot; the process is second nature to him now, so he has no idea how to begin to explain. It’s like teaching someone else how to breathe air. “Um, okay. So first, we need to steam distill the leaves…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all of you are still following this even after the delay! Real life and other projects have been kicking my butt lately, but I'm determined to see this story through to the end! <3

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos/Comments are always appreciated! :D <3 Come find me at [teekettle.tumblr.com](http://teekettle.tumblr.com/)


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